In Dire Straits
by LobaEclipse
Summary: From lost sparkling to loyal soldier, this is the story of a lifetime told in drabbles and one-shots. Ch. 1 – Roadkill
1. Roadkill

Though I have been reading fanfics for Lord-knows-how-long, I never thought I'd have it in me to write them. Other people's characters just don't link to hang out in my head. However, I have noticed that the _Transformers_ community seems remarkably tolerant of the dreaded Original Character, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

This is a collection of one-shots and drabbles. They are interconnected, but are not in any semblance of chronological order. I'll indicate in the author's notes if/when a chapter references another chapter.

Also, I am relying on MS Word and my own college-addled brain to pick up on my mistakes. Please let me know if you spot any.

**Disclaimer :** _Transformers_ is the property of Hasbro et al.

**Title :** Roadkill

**Timeframe/ Setting :** Movie'verse. Post ROTF. Earth.

**Summary : **There are certain hazards of the road that every car, truck, and SUV will eventually encounter. Ancient and noble races are no exception.

**A/N :** Frankly, I am shocked at how little this particular issue is addressed in fanfics. Onward to Chapter One!

* * *

"_Yeah, you got yer dead cat and you got yer dead dog.  
On a moonlight night, you got yer dead-toad frog.  
Got yer dead rabbit and yer dead raccoon.  
The blood and the guts – they're gonna make you swoon!_

_. . . _

_You got yer dead skunk in the middle of the road,  
Stinkin' to high Heaven!"_

_-- _from_ "Dead Skunk" by __Loudon Wainwright III_

Sam was used to military efficiency. After so many years among both human and Cybertronian soldiers, he had come to realize that some things really were universal. One of these universal truths was that soldiers didn't dawdle. However, as the plane came to rest and allowed Ironhide, Bumblebee, and a collection of human soldiers to disembark, Sam would have sworn they were practically scurrying.

Perhaps something big had happened, he thought, as everyone, even Bee, hurried off without a word to him. Maybe someone was badly hurt, or they had come across an important piece of intelligence, or . . .

As he turned away to follow them, realization sent a cold clench of fear through his chest. He hadn't seen Diregrip. She had been on that mission; she was supposed to be there; why hadn't anyone – he swung around just in time to see her slinking out of the plane's dark hold and onto the runway.

His first thought was to run to her side and demand an explanation, but some sort of deep-rooted self preservation instinct froze him in place and made him take a second look. Unlike the other Autobots, Dire was not in her alt mode (a suped-up, tricked-out Jeep Liberty that Mikaela referred to as a "redneck hotrod") and she was definitely _slinking_. That slow, purposeful stride and rhythmically twitching tail-tip usually meant that someone was about to get slagged.

He was just about to choose the better part of valor and beat a hasty retreat (surely Bee could tell him what was up – once he caught him) when the smell hit him. Suburban upbringing nonwithstanding, he recognized it immediately. He just couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or puke.

Dire spent what seemed like half the afternoon in the washracks before surrendering to the inevitable and going to find Ratchet. By then, word of mouth and personal experience had spread her story throughout the entire base and she found the corridors suspiciously clear. The CMO was none too pleased when she showed up in his medbay, but she pulled back her audios and gave him her best lost sparkling optics.

"I can't get it off."

Ratchet hacked and gagged when he sighed, but he commed Perceptor and, after a moment's consideration, sent her back outside while they went to confer with his human counterpart.

Outside sitting on the tarmac with the heat rising off the asphalt under her paws, the scent seemed worse than ever. Ops training aside, Dire actually considered shutting off her olfactory sensors for a bit. Caution conquered comfort, and she just stuck it out.

Her audios pricked up in interest when Perceptor strode out of the hangar with a flock of humans at his heels. He set down the crate he had been carrying and began to rummage through it while Lennox rounded up what was apparently a group of volunteers from the latest bunch of new recruits (poor fools, didn't they know that an officer asking for volunteers was like a catbot asking turborats out for dinner?). Her concern for the humans evaporated in light of concern for herself when Perceptor pulled a large washtub out of the crate and began dumping various jugs of liquid and boxes of powder in it. The concoction bubbled ominously. Lennox finished up his instructions with the warning that since they all wanted to get to know the Autobots, they had better make damn sure every inch of this one was shiny and sweet-smelling by the time they were done. He sent one of them after a water hose, gave Dire a wink, and left just as Perceptor seemed satisfied with his witch's brew.

Dire waited until the boy returned with the hose and Lennox was out of earshot before advising them that there were certain inches of her frame that she could take care of herself, thank you very much, and that if anyone came near her with a bottle of Febreze she would not be held accountable for her actions.

Duly humbled, they collected their scrub brushes and set to work on her legs. Dire tried to stay still, she really did, but the fizzing solution tickled like the Pit. Her occasional twitches and grumbles, with her stern warning on their minds, made the humans jumpy. Perceptor observed for a bit until sympathy (or, more likely, curiosity) won out and he lent a hand. The humans seemed to be trying to avoid her more dangerous parts, like her skull-like jaws and the shoulder guards that hid her rifles. They never seemed to realize that her clawed paws were just as deadly, but she wasn't about to correct them. Any help was welcome help by this point, so Dire obligingly tilted her head this way and that as Perceptor scrubbed it with a soft-bristled brush, even though she knew he was going to start asking questions in about – three . . . two . . . one . . .

Sighing a little in resignation (and immediately sneezing bubbles), Dire began her tale. They had mobilized a team to investigate what seemed to be a Decepticon signal. Bee and Dire, naturally, had gone out ahead while Ironhide followed with the human troops. Once they found the trail, both scout and hunter were certain that the wayward signal was from Barricade. They gave chase on different roads but headed in roughly the same direction. Dire's path took her through some winding gravel service roads that cut through a national forest. Intent on the trail and seemingly gaining on her quarry, Dire didn't pay much attention to her scanners indicating a mammal much too small to be a human up ahead. She rounded a curve to find herself bearing down on the business end of a rather agitated black and white critter. Here, Dire paused in her narrative to add, for Perceptor's sake, that according to the internet it was in fact _Spilogale putorius_. Said agitated critter had just enough time to spray some sort of noxious fluid all over her grill before it met its untimely end under her left front tire. Things just went downhill from there. Dire came around the next curve to discover that she was much, much closer to Barricade than she had thought and Bee and Ironhide weren't nearly as close as she'd hoped. The silver lining was that Barricade seemed just as surprised to see her as she was to see him – two could play at the signal-dampening game, after all – and that surprise gave her enough time to transform and attack rather than get blasted on the spot. Unfortunately, the mortal remains of _S. putorius_ had splattered all over her undercarriage, releasing more of the noxious fluid in addition to the more mundane gory bits. When she transformed, those remains got smeared around into all sorts of uncomfortable places. She managed to ignore this rather revolting development and hold her own against the Decepticon while comming for backup. Bee was wounded almost as soon as he arrived, and Barricade fled just as Ironhide and the rest of the cavalry showed up on the scene. Much to everyone's annoyance, Major Lennox opted to have Bee's injury and Dire's . . . condition taken care of rather than give chase, as he didn't particularly want to pursue the wily 'Con while two of the three Autobots were at less than their best. Dire argued that she could fight perfectly fine. Lennox countered that it is rather difficult to fight a fleeing enemy when said enemy can smell you coming a mile off. Thereafter followed a rather uncomfortable ride home and, well, you know the rest.

Dire fell silent as the humans rinsed her off thoroughly and then began scrubbing again. They repeated the procedure again, and then again when she transformed into alt mode. The humans relaxed marginally, as she seemed less likely to bite in this form. Dire, however, was paying too much attention to Perceptor to be amused. The scientist had fallen suspiciously quiet, which usually meant that he was planning something. Dire was getting her final rinse when he spoke up.

"Dr. Batrol said that this compound can be an irritant in the eyes and other membranes of organics. Did you observe something similar?"

"Er . . . not particularly, no."

She received a thoughtful 'hmm' in reply. "And it does have a rather distinctive odor, does it not?" he said, half to himself.

Dire wished that she were in robot mode so she could give him an incredulous look. "Uh . . . yes. I suppose you could say something like that."

"Although, it does seem unlikely that Barricade could actually smell you from a mile away . . ." He trailed off into thoughtful murmuring. "Might prove useful if . . . I wonder if Wheeljack and I could . . ."

With a sense of dawning horror, Dire stumbled upon his train of thought.

"_NO_!"

* * *

**A/N :** Dire should be ashamed of herself. _Spilogale putorius_, the eastern spotted skunk, is a threatened species in several states. Also, Perceptor's concoction is a mixture of soap, hydrogen peroxide, and baking soda. Apparently, tomato juice doesn't actually work.


	2. Mockingbird

**Disclaimer :** _Transformers_ is the property of Hasbro et al.

**Title :** Mockingbird

**Rating :** K

**Timeframe/ Setting :** Movie'verse. Pre movies. Cybertron, early war.

**Summary : **A sparkling learns a life lesson.

**A/N :** This is the one that convinced me to start writing things down – it latched on to my brain and would not go away. It was heavily inspired by _To Kill a Mockingbird_, both in plot and in tone. If, for whatever reason, you have been living under a rock and have not read _TKaB_, go do so. Immediately.

* * *

"_When a child asks you something, answer him, for goodness' sake. But don't make a production of it. Children are children, but they can spot an evasion quicker than adults, and evasion simply muddles 'em."_

_-- Atticus Finch in _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee_

Looking back on my first few vorns of life, I sometimes marvel that I managed to survive at all. The events surrounding my creation, my subsequent treatment, my caretakers among the Autobots, my education and experiences following – all were remarkable and often harrowing experiences. And even during the duller moments, I was a troublemaker. This was not a deliberate attempt on my part; it was simply a product of my boredom.

I was cleverer than my fellow sparklings. I hasten to point out that this is not a snobbish statement. I possessed six toes on each foot, my optics had an amber filter, and I processed things much more quickly than my fellows – all were facets of myself that I accepted without shame or pride. All were irrefutable characteristics bestowed upon me by either those who had created me or the basic traits of my spark. They were nothing remarkable. They were simply part of how I was made.

Also, I was (and some would argue, still am) eaten up alive from nose to tail by curiosity. When I found my playmates too dull I would go off to seek my own amusements. I abandoned them not out of malice, but simply because they were uninterested in my pursuits. Invariably, this independence and curiosity got me into trouble and two or three times very nearly lead to an untimely offlining.

However, there is one instance, very distinct in my memory, when I am entirely certain that it saved my life.

OlllllllO

It happened when Optimus Prime's team changed bases. We were shuffled around for reasons the details of which I only vaguely remember (some outpost had been captured, the frontline had been pushed back, previous headquarters were no longer secure, et cetera) and ended up sharing facilities with another team for a short time.

I was allowed in the cockpit of the transport when it began to descend upon the new base as long as I muted my vocalizer and did not leave Ironhide's arms (or shoulder, where I occasionally climbed to get a better look). One look at the massive building replaced my worries with fascination. It had once been a monastery for bots dedicated to the worship and study of Primus, Ironhide told me. When the surrounding city fell under Decepticon attack, they had made short work of the peaceful monks. Even after the enemy had been driven out, the building lay abandoned. Eventually, the Autobots had decided that the large, sturdy building was too useful to waste.

From above, it looked like two large circles side by side and squashed together so that they overlapped a bit. At the center of each circle was a smaller, slightly off-colored circle. As we neared, I realized that they were courtyards open to the sky. Ironhide pointed out modifications to the original structure – fences along the perimeter, gun turrets – with apparent satisfaction. I was enthralled.

Our first night cycle there, I could not rest. The pull of a new and exciting playground was too strong. I slipped away to go exploring. This proved more difficult than expected, as there were a great deal of adult mechs up and about, and I was sure that all of them knew that it was much too late for a sparkling to be wandering around. However, I relished the challenge. The Special Operations bots were my particular friends and role models. Although they never deliberately taught me any of their tricks, I was too smart for my own good and more observant than most adults gave me credit for. Slipping in and out of shadows and learning things I probably ought not to know was my favorite game.

The monastery was a labyrinth of corridors. They crisscrossed each other irregularly, often curving to match the sweep of the exterior walls, sometimes opposing them. The walls were etched with scrolling patterns. Occasionally, I would recognize a glyph of ancient Cybertronian, but most of them were incomprehensible to me. The main corridors had exposed rafters just below the ceiling and the largest of them had pillars. The alterations made by the Autobots were jarringly out of place. Keypads on doors, cameras on walls, heavy gates where there had once been open arches – all seemed awkward and wrong. Blasphemy was an unknown concept to me, but if I had had the understanding, that's how I would have described my feelings. For the first time, I had a glimpse of the peace and beauty Cybertron had held before the war and a realization of how conflict had twisted it. My processor was occupied with these weighty thoughts as I turned and began to make my way back. By then it was very late, so I had little to worry about unexpected company. My feet found their own path. It hadn't taken me long to realize that all the corridors eventually lead to one courtyard or the other, and as long as I could find the right courtyard I could easily slip back to the room I shared with the other sparklings.

When I came to a doorway that led out into the open air, I stopped short in surprise. The courtyard was occupied by a group of unfamiliar mechs who stood almost directly across the yard with their backs to me. Through the press of their bodies, I could see that they faced another doorway, though that one was blocked by a closed gate. They were muttering among themselves and, for the first time in a while, I felt the prickling of unease that lead to fear. I pressed back into the shadows, thinking that I had stumbled upon the wrong courtyard. But no, the gate beyond the crowd was unmistakable and I could dimly sense my brother's spark beyond it.

Suddenly, another voice cut through the murmurs and I was all I could do to keep from crying out in relief. I would know Prowl's calm, measured tones anywhere. The bubble of unease burst and vanished. My relief was so great that I forgot I was supposed to be sneaking back to my berth unnoticed. I bounded across the courtyard and wound through the legs of the strange mechs to find the tactician.

He stood facing the other mechs with his back to the gate. In the sudden silence caused by my disturbance we stared at each other for a long, uncertain moment. I had never seen such a look on his face – had anyone else worn it, I would have called it fear. Before I had time to process it, the expression was replaced by his usual smooth demeanor. He just as fluidly knelt, scooped me up, and straightened again. I went limp with shock. Though I was fond of Prowl in a vague, companionable sort of way (with an equally vague impression that the feeling was mutual) he rarely interacted closely with me or the other sparklings. However, there was no awkward sense of unfamiliarity when he transferred me from his right hand to his left and tucked me against his side. I recovered enough to brace my feet against his hip armor and press a little closer into his side.

The silence pressed on my audios, and I was uncomfortably aware that every optic was fixed on me. I wrapped my forelegs around Prowl's wrist and studied his feet. When he shifted slightly, I automatically looked up at his face. He was studying me with an unfathomable look on his face. I flattened my audios against my helm, did my best to sink my head into my shoulders, and went back to looking at his feet. Again he surprised me. He lifted his other hand and stroked my spinal strut a few times. The soothing gesture made me instinctively relax.

"So you're just letting the things wander around on their own, are you?"

My gaze jerked to the other mechs in confusion, both at the question and the unusually harsh tone in which it had been asked, but the speaker was anonymous in the crowd. Seeing nothing but unfriendly faces before me, I did my best to bury my head in Prowl's side. I was no stranger to a good scolding, but I didn't fancy taking one from a stranger who seemed, in my opinion, to be disproportionately fragged off about a little exploration. Besides, the mech's accusation seemed directed at Prowl and reprimanding one bot for the actions of another did not make the slightest bit of sense. I figured the best course of action was to hide my face and pretend I wasn't there until Prowl could talk some sense into them – which, granted, was his area of expertise.

"We do not make a habit of allowing them out alone. Grinner?" he queried. So much for that plan. I mumbled something indistinct into his plating. "You'll have to speak up, please ma'am."

When an adult pulled out the semi-sarcastic titles of respect, I knew I was slagged. Still, I preferred one angry Prowl to a horde of angry strangers, so I lifted my head to answer him properly, although I addressed his feet.

"I'm only 'lone 'cause Knock's a coward," I said.

"Just because your brother is usually more reasonable than you are doesn't mean that he is a coward." I winced. "What exactly were you doing that was so unfavorable that he declined to join you?"

I was used to Prowl using big words (I half believed that he did it on purpose just to force us sparklings to expand our vocabularies), so I had my answer ready for him almost before he had finished speaking. "Reconnaissance," I said. I glanced up to gauge his reaction and found him almost smiling.

"Where did you learn that word?" Yep, definitely smiling.

"Jazz," I said simply.

He actually chuckled. Surely the universe as we knew it was drawing to an end.

"Train 'em that young, do you?" another unfriendly voice said, but I could have sworn that there was amusement there, too.

"No," Prowl and I said in unison. I eyed him warily, expecting a reprimand for interrupting, but instead he indicated that I should continue. "Nobody'll teach me anything," I said, not quite able to keep the sulky tone from my voice.

"_Can_ you even teach those things?" someone else asked without any amusement at all.

"Certainly," Prowl said amiably. "It is often more difficult to find appropriate things to keep their processors occupied, hence this little . . . recon mission."

"Just wanted to explore some," I mumbled.

"I know, Grinner," he said gently. "I simply prefer that you let someone – an adult – know beforehand. If you had waited until morning, I'm sure someone would have been happy to show you around."

I looked up as the mechs shuffled uncomfortably, but I was preoccupied with this revelation. While sneaking around without getting caught was half the fun of exploring, having someone else around could be fun, too. It would be even better if said someone else already knew about the place we were exploring and could answer all my questions about it. My optics focused on the mechs and much to my surprise, I spotted a familiar face.

"Hey, Rideroller!" I chirped. He had been one of the recruits to help Prime's unit get settled in, and I remembered him as rather open and cheerful. However, the young mech (well, compared to the other bots he was young; in my optics he was rather old) seemed startled and then embarrassed when I picked him out. I pulled my audios back appealingly. "You reckon you could show me around some?" He shuffled his feet without looking at me, so I shifted up a level in Pleading Mode. "Promise I'll be good an' not wander off or anythin' an' I'll pay real good attention," I said. He wavered.

"Grinner," Prowl chastised gently, "Rideroller has his own responsibilities, I'm sure."

"Oh," I wilted slightly and examined his feet again.

There was a moment of awkward silence until someone spoke. "I – it's alright, Grinner," Rideroller said hurriedly. My head snapped up and he gave me a lop-sided grin, oblivious to the other mechs staring at him in shock. "Sure, I'll show you around sometime when I'm off shift."

"Wow, that's great! Have you seen that big room with all the arches? It's really cool but I can't read the symbols and I want to know what they mean. When can we go? And it seems like this whole places is all on one level 'cause I didn't find and stairs or lifts or anything. An' that other courtyard –" I was wiggling and babbling with delight, and probably would have continued on in this vein for quite some time had Prowl not cleared his vocalizer and given me a significant look. "Oh, um, I mean, thank you very much, sir."

"You're welcome, little miss," he chuckled, and then looked around at the other mechs as if seeing them for the first time. "Uh, well, you probably ought to get some recharge and you won't do that out here talking to us. C'mon guy, let's let her rest."

He backed up a few steps at a time, beckoning the others. They began to move, milling about in twos and threes. A few looked at me long and hard look as through they expected something from me, but all I could do was give them a curious, wide-optiked look in return. I was too embarrassed by my earlier babbling to say something unless it was to answer a question, but no one spoke to me. Gradually, they drifted away to the various doorways scattered around the courtyard. Rideroller gave me a little wave before he turned and left.

Prowl vented a deep sigh and leaned back against the gate. I spooked at a chuckle behind us and twisted around to see Jazz's visor glowing in the dark corridor behind the gate.

"You two charmers," he said as Prowl straightened to let him open the gate and slip out. He stepped in front of us to put one hand on the tactician's shoulder and the other on my head. "If we set y'all loose on the 'Cons we wouldn't have a war to worry about for long."

"Hmph," another voice snorted and I jumped again. To my wonderment, Ironhide was up on the roof. His dark armor had hidden him perfectly until I looked directly at him.

"Don't even pretend you're immune to it, mech," Jazz practically purred.

He got another snort in return. "Don't patronize me. I know exactly how well Prowl charms you," he rumbled dryly. "And don't give the sparkling ideas."

I wasn't inclined to be getting any ideas at the moment. Exhaustion in both processor and frame was setting in. I was too tired to worry about the grown-ups' banter. Prowl shifted to hold me in both arms and I gratefully snuggled against his chest. He and Jazz were murmuring quietly to one another, but I didn't pay attention. I was nearly offline before Prowl laid me down and I cuddled against Knock's flank on the berth.

OlllllllO

I rested soundly that night cycle, and for the following cycle. Indeed, it was three cycles later when I awoke in terror in the darkness.

My dreams, like those of all Cybertronians, were unconscious reviews of memories and emotions. The memories were often jumbled and disjointed, one long string of totally unrelated files. However, on that particular night memories of my "recon mission" and the bizarre events that followed played out cast in a new and startling light. It shocked me so badly that I was pulled out of recharge and lay there huddled against my brother's side while I pondered my little epiphany.

The angry, accusational muttering of the gathered mechs. My instinctive disquiet. Rideroller's hesitation. The aggressive flare of Prowl's sensor panels. The unexplained presence of Prowl himself, along with Ironhide and Jazz.

I was shaking so hard that I could hear the faint clatter of my plating against Knock's. I scooted over so I wouldn't wake him. For a moment I lay there, miserable in my loneliness. The darkness held me spellbound, but I finally managed to summon the courage to slide between the bars of the protective railing surrounding the berth to drop to a high stool and then to the floor. When some unimaginable horror failed to leap out at me, I strode confidently to the door.

It had been reformatted since my earlier escapade. Rather than opening on a motion sensor, the door had to be triggered by touching a palm-pad set on the wall high above my head. I had accepted this restriction on my freedom with little grumbling. As my friends in Ops said, if you were dumb enough to get caught then you deserved whatever punishment you received.

I considered the pad and then the shelving unit set in the wall on the other side of the door. Climbing the ladder-like shelves was laughably easy, but making the jump from there to the pad was awkward. I had to attempt it three times before I hit the pad and the door obediently whooshed open.

Once I slipped out into the hallway, I hesitated again. Before fear could set in, I slipped under the gate (those bars were too close together for me to squeeze through) and headed for the first safe haven my processor lit upon.

The light was still on in Prowl's temporary office in spite of the time, as I had expected. However, the door was standing open, which I certainly had not expected. I dithered a moment before cautiously poking my head in the room.

He was not at his desk, but instead sat on the couch usually reserved for visitors with orderly stacks of datapads surrounding him. He looked up, frowning in confusion and then concern when I slunk into the room.

"Grinner? Are you alright?"

"Couldn' sleep," I murmured and kicked into high-level Pleading Mode.

I could see his surprise. Prowl wasn't the type of mech that restless sparklings usually ran to for comfort. He got over it quickly, however, and shuffled around his datapads to clear the cushion beside him. I took a running jump (secretly pleased that he didn't offer to pick me up) and happily settled down. He stroked my head carefully before turning back to his work.

It helped. It really did. The dim lighting of the office kept the monsters at bay. The couch was threadbare and a little musty-smelling, but it was comfortable. Prowl's systems humming quietly (_very_ quietly; he hadn't earned his designation for nothing) and the soft scratch of his stylus ran together to form soothing background noises. Most of my fears retreated, but I could not sleep.

Finally, after nearly a breem of frustrated attempts to get my processor to shut down, I squirmed and stretched until I could lay my head against his leg. This did not prompt a reaction one way or the other so I shuttered my optics and relaxed, hoping to find recharge. It continued to elude me. Prowl continued to work. Over the course of the next hour or so, I gradually worked my way up into his lap. I shifted my head from beside his leg to on it, then one forepaw, then the other, then most of my forequarters, then, well y'know, since that's not very comfortable, may as well get the rest of me up there. I snuggled against his abdominal plating feeling ridiculously pleased with myself.

"What's troubling you?" he asked after a while.

I feigned sleep until he said my name with quiet sternness. I cracked one optic open, then shyly looked away.

"They wanted t' hurt me, didn' they?"

He was silent for so long that I thought he hadn't heard me and I would have to repeat my question. But when I looked back at him, he was regarding me solemnly.

"Yes, they did . . . at first."

"But – but _why_?" I had learned the Autobots' lesson of trusting my comrades too well. It had taken a dream-memory for me to recognize the hostility I had instinctively noticed and feared. But I still didn't understand their reasons, and the questions chased themselves around and around my processor like a pair of catbots fighting one another.

Prowl looked away to stare sadly at the far wall for a thoughtful moment. "They were afraid," he said simply.

I uncurled with a jerk. "Of _me_?" I was understandably flabbergasted. I lived with soldiers, after all, and was well aware of my own puniness.

"Not exactly," he said slowly. "More like they were frightened by what you are."

I simply stared at him. Were it not for the well known fact that Prowl had no sense of humor, I would have thought that he was making some odd sort of joke. For a group of soldiers to be frightened of a sparkling . . .

"You know how you were created, Grinner."

I sat up and nodded. I remembered fragmented bits and pieces and had been told less, but I got the gist of it.

"You also understand how Autobots unfamiliar with you and the others might be uneasy about having things made by the Decepticons in their base?"

I nodded again. This made sense, even though I had never thought about it in that light before. "But I'm not a 'Con!"

He gave me one of his rare, faint smiles as he touched my head. "Of course you aren't, but they didn't know that."

I ruminated over this a moment. "But they should've trusted Prime," I grumbled.

His optics flickered in surprise, but he agreed with me. "Yes. Yes, they should have."

"But . . ." I sifted though my memories carefully. "They never called me a stinkin' 'Con. They just said I was a – a _thing_. And you just said that, too." I glared at him, surly and suspicious.

He sighed and stroked my back soothingly. "I didn't mean it just then, I was simply echoing what they thought," he said. Mollified, I leaned against his abdominal plating again. "You are entirely too perceptive for your own good," he added softly, but I wasn't sure if I was supposed to hear that or not.

"But why?" I asked again.

"Spark-splitting in the manner used to create you and your brother – and the others – is very unusual. Not many bots had heard of doing it before, and a lot of them don't believe that it could be done," he said.

I snorted disdainfully, unconsciously mimicking Ironhide. "That's silly. I ain't no stupid drone." I was almost insulted, actually. These bots had wanted to offline me not for something I had done to them, but simply because of the way I had been made – and they were wrong on both counts about that, anyway!

"Frightened mechs and femmes aren't usually logical, Grinner," he said. "You'd do well to get used to that."

"But surely they could tell!" It was much, much later that I learned that the sensors I had been built with were not standard for sparklings and rarely installed in adults at that. I took for granted my ability to detect the spark energy of other bots just as I did my other senses, and it was quite some time before I learned that I was unique in that respect.

"But they wouldn't take the time to notice," he said sadly. "Frightened bots can also be blind as well."

I started to say how foolish this was, but I remembered how I had panicked in my own berth not too long ago and so I quieted. Prowl, seeing this, nodded.

"But . . .but they don't want to hurt me any more, right? You scared 'em off?"

"I believe it was you who did most of the convincing."

I ducked my head at this unwarranted praise. "I didn't do nuthin' at all," I muttered. "Just asked a lot of dumb questions. You an' Jazz an' Ironhide were the ones guardin' the door."

"You were yourself, Grinner – bold and honest and curious. That was just what they needed to see," Prowl assured me. I blinked at him, uncomprehending. "They didn't know who or what you were. They thought of you as a thing. But once they saw and heard you, they realized what you were really like. They thought of you as a person, and they weren't afraid anymore."

I nodded, thinking again. Ratchet had once called me "unabashedly guileless." Jazz had laughed when I asked him and said that it meant that I was not ashamed about being honest. He also said that I should take it as a compliment, whether Ratchet meant it as one or not. Prowl had just said pretty much the same thing. My own curiosity was no revelation, but as I though about it, I realized that it was the very thing that had driven away my fear. Once I knew what something was and how it worked it was hard to be afraid of it, and I spent all of my time learning as much as I could about everything that I could.

"So I should make friends with everybody so they won't be afraid of me?" I asked brightly.

Prowl gave me a surprised look again before it became another one of those tiny smiles. "Cautiously, as Jazz would say, but yes. That sounds like a good plan to me."

Had I been older, or at least more awake, I might have pressed on and questioned why my plan could not be implemented with, say, the Decepticons. But, in the end, I was only a sleepy sparkling. Most of my fears had been assuaged and my questions had been answered. Prime's head tactician had approved my method of dealing with fearful strangers in the future. No matter what anyone said, I could sense my brother in my spark and I could even faintly sense Prowl's as it thrummed warm and steady under my paws. I tucked my head contentedly under his chin and finally let sleep claim me.

* * *

**A/N :** The phrase "eaten up alive from nose to tail by curiosity" is one I stole from Kipling. It amuses me terribly and I was happy to find a way to use it.


End file.
